Chapter Forty-Four Mary
Chapter Forty-Four
Mary
Last weekend
Julian Braithwaite had been the only person to ever show Sam any kindness, attention, affection.
How could she have possibly known his motives were anything but pure?
She had nothing to compare it to. And as she got older, she clung to the increasingly physical contact as the ultimate expression of his love for her.
But he didn’t love her. Even if he had, his actions still would have been statutory rape. She was fifteen; he was fifty.
In the beginning, the attention felt safe—a lifeline she thought she could trust. He told her she was special—a word that sounded like praise until she learned what it really meant. She’d thought it was love. But love wouldn’t have made her afraid.
She told me she began to sense it—that tightness in his voice whenever she mentioned her future, the way he warned her that nothing could “jeopardize what they had.” When she missed a period, she didn’t need to guess how he’d react.
He had too much to lose. A pregnancy meant exposure—proof of what he’d done.
So she hid it for as long as she could, terrified he’d force her into an abortion if he found out.
By the time he did, it was too late. The damage, as he called it, was done.
He arranged for her to deliver at a small rural clinic two counties away, a place where no one knew them and no questions would be asked.
She said she held her daughter only once—just long enough to count her fingers, to memorize the weight of her in her arms—before the nurses took the baby to the nursery.
Not long after, Sam began to hemorrhage.
She woke hours later, weak and disoriented, to find her child gone.
Julian told her the baby had been transferred for observation, that it was best she rest, that he’d handle everything.
He said if she trusted him—if she didn’t make trouble—she’d see the baby again once they were both “well enough.” She believed him.
But when she was finally discharged, the nursery was empty, and no one seemed to know a thing.
At first she’d thought he’d let her go—let them go—but once the baby was gone, she realized what her daughter represented: evidence, risk, weakness.
That was the breaking point. The moment she said she wanted to see her daughter, the kindness vanished. His expression went cool and deliberate, the way it always did whenever she reached for something he meant to hold over her. He accused her of betrayal, of sabotaging everything he’d worked for.
He’d taken the child somewhere far away, promising that, someday, when enough time had passed, he would allow her to see the girl.
If she didn’t make trouble or tell anyone about their “relationship.” Sam’s own daughter became a weapon he wielded to keep her in line.
Because with the carrot came the stick. He assured her that if she ever breathed a word to another living soul, he would know.
And he would make sure she never saw her child again.
Because he was that kind of man, and he had that kind of power.
The day on the river when she’d come at me in the raft had been her daughter’s birthday.
“I wanted so much for her,” she told me, now in a whisper that I could hardly hear over the incessant buzzing of the mosquitoes clustered around the mesh panels of our makeshift tent.
“I wanted to have some stability so I could make a life for her. I wanted to give her that cabin in the woods by the water where she could grow up running and exploring and free. I wanted to be someone for her.”
“You are someone,” I said, brushing the hair back from the clammy skin of her forehead. “You’ve always been someone. You’re her mother. And you’re my sister.”
With great effort, Sam twisted to face me. I could barely make out her features even though she was only inches from me.
“I need—” she huffed out, gathered her strength, and tried again. “I need you to find her. Find her and give her what I couldn’t.”
“Sam, please stop talking like that,” I begged through the tears I couldn’t hide anymore. “It’s just an hour or so now before the tide—”
“You promise me!” she hissed, grabbing my hand with what little strength she had left.
I nodded. “Yes, yes. Okay. I promise.”
Nodding, she collapsed against me again, reassured I would carry out the wish she wouldn’t live long enough to see fulfilled.
I was there the moment my sister took her first breath.
And I was there the moment she took her last.
One I’ll never remember, and the other I’ll never forget.